The Felis Silvestris Lybica of Doom
by Aro
Summary: Sam makes a friend, and Dean makes an enemy... of the sort. “Okay, so, you named a demon after your favorite president? Real sweet, Sam, but now I see how badly screwed up we are.”
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Felis Silvestris Lybica of Doom  
_Disclaimer_: I don't own _Supernatural_. 

Notes: Effeffdotnet wasn't being nice, so I separated this crap into four parts.

♠♠♠

Honestly, Sam hadn't found the demonic cat; the demonic cat found him. He'd been casually walking though the sewer, gun and flashlight out, when he heard the low, vicious growl from behind. He whipped around, lip curved into a concentrated snarl, finger readily pressed tightly on that trigger—but, wait, there was nothing to shoot at! A soft, confused murmur of, "huh?" rolled off his tongue, but he did not lower his weapon. From under his long, dark fringe, his wary gazed flicked right to left, up and—

Was something rubbing up against his leg? Sam stumbled back in surprise, not used to that kind of attention, and aimed his flashlight down. "Oh, _hell_ no." Instantly, his jaw slacked, and his brows shot up to his hairline. There sat a cat—a large black cat, with red eyes, exceedingly sharp claws, and _horns_. Apparently, Satan lost his pet, which now stared up admiringly at the twenty-three year old. Cautiously, he kneeled down, a good three feet away from it, and briefly wondered if he was hallucinating.

"M_rr_ow." The demon cat meowed in a normal feline way, and Sam swore the freakish thing was smiling up at him. It really did sound like an old fashioned, non-demonic cat, though, in appearance, it was a bit fat. _What does it eat_? Sam asked himself, but, judging by the way it innocently licked it's long, thick set of fangs, he decided that he _really_ didn't want to know, or find out. The black cat meowed again; now up on all fours, still staring at him with this expectant gleam in it's unusual eyes.

Intrigued, Sam hesitantly set down his flashlight, and extended an arm. He whistled softly at the cat, his long fingers stretched out welcomingly. The cat happily waddled forward, pressing the top of it's head into the palm of his hand. The feeling of it's soft fur made him smile, while the horns, located just in front of the inside of each ear, made him shiver. The texture reminded him that of a seashell, but felt hollow as they scraped against his hand.

Already fond of the demonic animal, the brunette smiled widely. When the sound of purring reached his ears, he chuckled, running his hand up and down the cat's back. The fat cat hummed louder, arching it's back, basking in the attention it was receiving from the human with the large, skillful hands. It, however, was not very happy when a cell phone suddenly went off, and the hand went away. Abruptly, Sam stood up, fumbling for his phone, cursing softly. His eyes remained locked on the horned cat. "Yeah?"

"_Yeah_? Dude, what the _hell_ is taking you so long?" It was no one other than Sam's older brother, Dean, who uttered the kind words, which were surely spoken with patience and deep concern. With a broken ankle, Dean was currently, and not to mention stubbornly, out of commission. When there was word of a rawhead creeping around in the sewers, he wanted to charge down there, but Sam had threatened to take away his crutches. Also, there may or may not have been a brutal threat dealing the burning of cassette tapes thrown in there somewhere.

Sam, who was still at a loss for words at the sight in front of him, wetted his lips. "You're not going to believe what I found." He swallowed hard, starting to feel uneasy with the cat staring up at him so intently. Finally, he tore his gaze away, smiling nervously, but a part of him—the hunter part, perhaps—expected the demon, though feline, to attack. Instantly, he looked back down, only to find the cat diligently licking his nine-toed paw, as if it were patiently waiting for Sam to get off the phone. "Huh."

After a pregnant pause, a snort came through Dean's nose. "You're in a _sewer_; there's not much I _wouldn't_ believe, you know that." Shuffling noises were heard; Dean was growing (even more so) restless. Another pause lingered in the air, followed by a tired groan. "Do I even want to know, Sam? 'Cause I'm not really in the mood for a repeat if it's a freakin' shapeshifter." There were only so many times a person could be declared illegally dead, and Dean had already reached his limit there.

"Oh, it's not a shapeshifter." Sam whistled through his teeth, trying to gather the cat's attention. Chuckling, he ducked his head when the cat's head shot up, it's right ear turning back.

"What the hell are you laughing at—oh, shit, there's a gas leak, isn't there?" The sound of the car door swinging open broke through the trance, and the younger male immediately straightened up, stuttering a chorus of, "no, Dean, _no_." He was already doing a terrible job of making sure Dean elevated and kept off his injured leg—he couldn't let him hobble through a sewer! "Save it, I'm comin' down."

"No! Come on, Dean, I'm coming up, _right now_, okay? Stay put. _Stay_." The last thing he needed was for Dean to slip coming down and break his neck. The twenty-seven year old refused to believe that the heavy cast slowed him down. The doctor had mentioned how very lucky Dean was not to need surgery, and apparently Dean took "lucky," as, "your ankle is perfectly fine, the cast is just so I get paid for doing something other than scamming you out of time and money."

Offended, Dean huffed. "I'm not a dog." There might have been a slur of, "dude," mixed in there somewhere, but these days, "dude," and, "man," were already pretty much implied, but always welcomed—_always_.

"Of course not, a dog listens." Before Dean could think of a retort—the cast may not have slowed him down mentally, but the painkillers have—he hastily mumbled, "I'll be up in a minute." As soon as the words left his mouth, the Big Brother Timer™ went off in Dean's head, counting down from a minute. Sam disconnected the call, shoving the cell into his pocket. A frown tugged back on his lips as he glanced down at the cat—_demon_ cat, he reminded himself—apologetically. "Sorry. Got to—" With his thumb he pointed behind his shoulder. "You know, _go_."

"_Mr_row?" Fuck puppy dog eyes—the kitty cat eyes made Sam's heart melt, even if they were red, and the cat a bit on the creepy side. Maybe the dark was playing games with his eyes, but it appeared the cat was… _salivating_? Yeah, it was about time to leave, especially since the smell? That was starting to get to him, but was it the usual sewer smell… or the smell of rotting human flesh? After the cat winked at him, Sam reached down, grabbing his flashlight, and shagged some mighty ass.

♠♠♠

"Last time I heard, a minute was _sixty_ seconds." Dean leaned against the Impala; striking Sam in the calf with a crutch as he hurried passed him. Sam hissed in pain, stifling a groan, but shot the shorter male a peeved look, actually tempted _not_ to hit the temporarily crippled one—at least, not physically. However, Sam's tightly furrowed brow warned Dean that if he used his crutches for violence ever again, he'd be hopping everywhere.

"Really? You must've missed the memo." Sam made his way around the car slowly, allowing Dean more time to slip into the passenger's seat after sticking his crutches into the back through the rolled down window. He pushed back the seat once he got in, wondering how it always seemed to move up on him. His left hand rested on the steering wheel, while his other went to the ignition, only to find it missing something of importance. Instantly, he put out his hand, his fingertips curled in. "The keys, Dean."

"Why don't you show me your license first?" Dean was clad in a black hoodie and a pair of Adidas (or was it Nike? Brand names never mattered growing up, why should they now?), pants. The pants had buttons down either side of each leg, which was just what Dean needed due to the bulky cast on his right leg. "Hmm?" He cocked a brow, also putting out a hand, only his fingers wiggled impatiently.

"Well, it depends—_whose_ license do you want to see first?" His mouth went back to rambling the second confusion flickered in Dean's hazel-green eyes. It would only take Dean about a second longer to figure out what he'd meant, but really, Sam didn't want to pass up an opportunity to show how much he frowned upon their Life game of fraud. "There's James Carson from Michigan, Eric Bloom from New York, _oh_ and there's Kirk Hammett from California! Wait, can't forget Robert Hope from—"

Oh, hello there! How nice the keys looked and felt in his hand. Sam's grin of victory widened from ear-to-ear as he turned over the engine—and he made sure to rev it more than necessary just for Dean, who had shifted away from him, grumbling, while most likely harboring evil, torturous thoughts about him. He adjusted the rear view mirror, eyeing the crutches, now with a smug smirk. Eh, he didn't have anything to worry about. Not until Dean's cracked talus healed, at least. Sam pressed down on the accelerator, suddenly wary for his future.

Dean gnawed at his bottom lip, every so often looking over at Sam to shoot daggers from his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but then paused, and shook his head. He purposely knocked his hand against the door, wrinkling his nose, and pouting like a child in time out… a time out that would last _at least_ seven more weeks, with only one down. Finally, he rested back, sinking into the seat, head tilted back. "So," he started as causally as someone who looked like they wanted to slap you upside the head with their crutch could, "what did you find?"

Sam chewed on the inside of his mouth wistfully. He figured answering with, "a cat," would make Dean roll his eyes and ridicule him with sarcastic retorts until the sun died out, while answering with, "a demon cat," would make Dean want him to make a U-turn so they can go back and shoot it. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Shoot it? Oh, no, he couldn't do that! The damned thing _meowed_ at him, and looked happy to see him! He couldn't shoot something after it looked happy to see him.

"Oh, god, you've got Bambi eyes. You made _friends_ with another rat, didn't you? Freak."

"Dude, I was _eight_, and it was a hamster, not a rat."

"Huh, well, it sure bit like one." Dean was absolutely positive that, in the right light, he could see the small white scar that Sam's lovable reincarnation of freaking Hitler left on his right index finger. Dean had soaked the rodent in holy water, believing that it was surely possessed, but even after a few bellowed cristo's the damned thing hadn't looked any more pissed. Although, looking back, Sam had. "So, if it wasn't a rat, what was it? An alligator?" His head lazily lolled over in Sam's direction.

"Yes." The brunette lied honestly, taking a hand off the steering wheel to scratch at an area above his Adam's apple. "It was an alligator." He dropped the hand to his lap, but then raised it, and reached for the on/off knob to the radio. With surprisingly quick reflexes for someone under the influence of a handful of painkillers, Dean slapped his hand away with a "back off, bitch," warning that stung loud and clear.

"Liar." He drew out the word, and turned his head back over to look out the window as snow began to fall. This made him scowl; of course now all the sidewalks were going to be slippery. Oh, well, if he went down, then he'd drag Sam and his unmanageable hair with him. "Whatever, dude." The older brother mumbled, shrugging a shoulder. He tried to appear uninterested, but the mere fact of Sam not wanting to tell him all of a sudden was intriguing. "Cristo!" Dean snapped out through a forced fit of coughing.

"I'm not possessed!" Sam huffed, actually feeling somewhat offended. He scowled, eyes narrowed forward, trying to pay more attention as the snow started to fall heavier. "And don't you even _try_ to sprinkle me with holy water."

"'Course not; wouldn't want you to melt." Yeah, then we'd all be subjected to see what he _really_ looked like under all that pretty. (_More_ pretty? Ludicrous!) Now, while Dean's tone was light, his pouted lips viciously wore a disgruntled frown that could not be reckoned with. To Sam, his brother's grumpiness was like a Jupiter-sized pimple making a home at the tip of his nose. "So, what's on our, uh, _agenda_, chauffer? A little bowlin'?"

"Yeah, then I thought maybe we'd go ice skating." The roads were already getting slick with the fresh snow, which made Sam extra wary. "I guess we'll just stop for take-out and get back to our motel—I think we're due for a few inches, and I don't want to be out driving in it."

Dean rested the side of his head against the cold window, peering sideways outside, his hazel-green eyes flickering left to right. "You could just—"

"No way, man, you're not driving; you _can't_ drive." Another sound cracked from the back of Sam's throat, but he stopped talking as they halted at a red light. A restless Dean now slumped back into his seat, and the brunette reached over, just brushing his palm against the curve of Dean's shoulder. "You can't even sit still," he mused with a slight smile, "why don't you lay off the coffee?" If there weren't a concerned glimmer in his dark eyes, Dean would have backhanded him. "You shouldn't even be taking it with your pills."

"It helps." The blonde explained simply, absently leaning in toward his brother, hands clasped tightly in his lap. The pad of one thumb rubbed against a calloused knuckle. He let out a whoosh of air, suddenly taking notice of Sam watching him, his smile faltering wearily. "If you don't quit staring at me, I'm going to start charging, and I ain't cheap."

"What? No discount for damaged goods?" Sam felt horrible—_really_—for poking fun at his brother's injury—which, if it didn't heal correctly, would lead to chronic pain, arthritis, and the bone even collapsing, which proved the seriousness of his condition—but when he remembered how Dean injured himself he just had to—

"Watch it—as soon as I'm back in _that_ seat, you're riding in the trunk." Well, at least he'd have the dream catcher to keep him company, and a secret compartment of nifty weapons, ammo, and supplies rattling beneath him—'tis _very_ soothing!

—He just had to _not_ tease Dean…

…No matter how many times the image of Dean tripping over an undersized black dog, that had been playing dead, played over (and over, and _over_…) in his overzealous mind.

Yeah, and _Sam_ was the clumsy one.

♠♠♠

"Wow, it's really coming down out there." Holding a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand, Sam peered through the beige curtains in their motel room. He turned back to Dean, who was situated on one of the double-sized beds, taking a bite from his food. A piece of the stringy cheese hung from his bottom lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his other hand. "Good thing we got here when we did, huh?"

"I guess." Dean expressed ever so optimistically through a mouthful of crust. Tomato sauce tainted the corners of his mouth. He was propped up against the white pleather headboard with his leg being elevated with extra pillows and the duffel bag containing a few choice guns and knives. Feel free to rest easily—Sam had made damn sure the guns were unloaded and the knives were wrapped up before letting his brother use it as a freaking footstool. "This cold pizza's missing the taste of beer."

"Guess you won't be having your Champion's breakfast of stale pizza and flat beer tomorrow then."

"Actually, I was hinting you should go out and fetch me some." Truthfully, there was no way in hell Dean would ever allow his little brother out in this weather, thus he mainly did it to get a rise out of Sam. He was rewarded with an eye roll and exasperated sigh. "I'm subtle like that."

"If you want beer, you can go hop to it in the blizzard." Likewise, there was no way in hell Sam would ever allow his older brother, injured or not, to wander out for beer in such weather conditions, thus he mainly did it to… oh, crap, _tease_ Dean. Damn, _almost_. He _almost_ made it. Anyway, after noticing the time, it was time to push those invisible Sammy glasses up the bridge of his nose. "_Besides_," The brunette started matter-of-factly, and Dean already wished he were drunk, "you're not drinking alcohol with your medication."

Oh, what a surprise—Dean was not amused. He shifted against the headboard uncomfortably, his shoulder blades digging into the padding. "Any other ground rules, chief?" He asked, one arm folded behind his head, the other sprawled across his abdomen. His short nails lazily scratched at exposed skin where his shirt had ridden up. "Don't want me to stand while pissing either?" Dean tilted his head challengingly, voice low, but the humor was still there, somewhere.

"Actually…" As soon as the single word slipped, Dean groaned, tossing one arm over his eyes. "I'm serious, Dean, you lose balance easily, and you can't support yourself on crutches and…" Sam paused, his ears rather pink, and he started to chew on his thumbnail. Awk_ward_!

"Aim?" Looking insulted, Dean snorted, peeking at Sam from under the crook of his arm. "Geesh Sam, give a man some credit. I do know a few tricks." Oh, _my_, and across the globe, a thousand wandering minds have simultaneously combusted. D_a_ng.

"I don't think I want to continue this conversation."

"Oh, take it like a man, Sam." Dean pointed at the opened box of half-eaten pizza on Sam's bed before snapping his fingers impatiently. Sam was just glad he hadn't pointed from his opened mouth to the box repeatedly this time. His little older brother was evolving, hurrah!

Shaking his head, Sam's eyes crinkled around the corners as he moved around his brother's bed. On the way, he reached down, patting the shorter male's uninjured foot. "I could say the same to you, but I won't." Dean said frowning, while wiggling his toes at him in a very threatening way. "I'm nice like that." The mirrored smug statement unexpectedly made the blonde's lips quirk back into a smile.

When Sam handed Dean a slice of pizza, Dean hesitantly accepted it, suddenly not all that hungry. He peeled off the crust—his favorite part—and then just plopped the rest into the small garbage bin next to his bed. "Where're we heading next?"

Sam looked pointedly at the window, visualizing the snowstorm outside. A chill ran down his spine, and he crossed his forearms against his abdomen, only muttering, "south." He'd gotten too use to California weather. It felt like they were in freakin' Vancouver, _geez_.

"_Beach_ south?" Dean tried, already picturing bikini clad woman smothering his damaged self with attention and pity (for whom?) sex. He also pictured Sam off in a short distance, rolling his eyes, completely jealous. "'Cause that? I could _so_ do." After finishing the crust from the pizza, he wiped his greasy palms up and down on his shirt.

"I'm sure you could." He somewhat stressed on, "sure," as if he'd said, "I _know_ you could," and his raised brow told Dean that they weren't heading for the beach any time soon. Unless there's a sand monster, thrashing the shores, stealing bikini tops and whatnot, that is. "Just someplace… _warmer_; less snow." He felt the cold draft caress his bare skin, and grumpily added, "_no_ snow."

"Yeah, and all that snow at the beach? Drives me just _crazy_." As he drew out the vowel sound in the last word, he titled his head back, eyes fluttering shut. He drooped down on the bed more, his shoulders and back of the head now comfortably rested on the fiber-filled pillow. "Damn, you drugged my pepperoni, didn't you?" He asked, and suppressed a yawn that rolled into a low moan as he stretched out his stiff limbs.

"Yeah, you caught me." Sam verified falsely with a ghost of a smile. "You know there's nothing I love more than drugging and taking advantage of my older brother." He closed the box of pizza, picked it up, and after several seconds of looking around the room, he placed it on a small wobbly table near the door, not caring what was already there.

"Sam, you just totally passed the line between sarcastic and creepy." Despite his words, Dean looked more proud than disturbed. "But what are brothers for, huh?" To that, he opened his eyes, looking up pointedly at the florescent light on the ceiling.

The younger brother couldn't help but to grin—at least Dean wasn't insisting on doing everything himself like last night. By now, he figured, either the medication mellowed him out, or Dean was just being lazy. Don't get him wrong; he wanted Dean to be lazy—_extra_ lazy. It saved them both the aggravation—for now, that is. "I'll get the light—you sleep, I'll shower."

"Good, 'cause I wasn't goin' to say anything, but dude, you smell like grease, pizza with overcooked pepperoni, and wet cat—all with a splash of sewer."

Only two words stood out, echoing in Sam's mind. "_Wet cat_?" He repeated, resting against the wall, next to the light switch, which was decorated with a black and white sticker reminding guests to turn off lights when leaving the room. He shifted weight from one leg to the other while a hand lingered above the said light switch.

"Yeah, you know, mildew." The room went dark, save for the light peeking out from under the closed bathroom door.

"Right." After reaching for his knapsack at the foot of his bed, Sam found himself in the crawlspace of a bathroom, already stripping off his shirt before the door was even shut. Granted, the bathroom was small, but at least the bathtub was spacious. He peeled off his socks, and started running the water in the shower before he tugged off his jeans and briefs.

♠♠♠


	2. Chapter 2

♠♠♠

The shower was hot—much hotter than it should have been, but it felt real good. They ran out of shampoo and conditioner about two states ago, so he washed his hair with a bar of soap, which was something they never seemed to run out of, even while growing up. Sam grabbed a washcloth—his own, not the motel's—and scrubbed the white soap with the blue cloth, eyes closed, shoulders hunched. His long hair is matted to his face and neck, and he inhaled and exhaled through slow, deep breaths. Water cascaded down his long, lanky frame into the pool at his feet.

Ease. Yeah, that was a way to put it; he felt at ease, you could say. His body was relaxed for once, but with the need of sleep weighing him down, he felt as if he could fall asleep right then and there. Dean wouldn't like that—no, no, Dean would be pissed if he drowned while taking a shower. Sure, he was standing in a bathtub, but he was still in the process of showering. He rocked back onto his heels, and then forward onto the balls of his feet. Why was it he always thought about his brother while showering? He opened an eye as the water ran cold, and it was like sharp icicles were stabbing away at his flushed, warmed flesh.

The water was turned off, and the soap, wrapped up in the cloth, was set down on the tub's ledge after the green shower curtain was whipped to the side. He wrapped a towel, which felt as if it were partly made from cardboard, around his waist after patting (hey now, back off; he had dry, sensitive skin!) his skin dry. Uncaring that his hair was still dripping wet, he put on a pair of sweatpants and a lovely purple shirt with a greyhound on it. At first, Dean thought it was a unicorn, but he'd been wrong, very wrong.

Outside, the wind was howling, and the windows were rattling. Sam cursed when he walked out of the bathroom because holy shit, it was _freezing_. He whispered an apology to his sleeping brother as he tiptoed across the room to turn on a lamp so he could kick some sense into the radiator. Before his bare foot could connect with the heater, a sound distracted him. Every muscle in his body suddenly tensed up, and he looked around the room, straining to hear that noise—_scratching_. It was scratching. He looked up, down, and all around.

"_Urph_." A very threatening sound rose from where Dean, a light sleeper, laid, and stirred in his dreamless sleep. His eyes were now opened, and he made another sound, which could've been, "_yarr_," if he were a pirate. He also made another mumble, which sounded as if he were saying his brother's name through a mouth of cotton. "Tha' you?" He smacked his lips together, looking slightly out of it (and that made Sam wonder how freaking long he'd been in the bathroom) but once the brunette hissed out an answer in the negative, he shot up into a sitting position.

The scratching continued, this time more persistently. Sam grabbed the nearest weapon he could find—a knife—and followed the noise—right up to the door. He looked behind his shoulder at Dean, who was trying to find the balance to stand up. "Sit your ass down!" With one hand grasping the brass doorknob, he pointed the knife at Dean, who sat back down, hands up defensively.

"Who pissed in your Cheerio's?"

Sam ignored him, and then flung open the door. At the same time, he jumped back into a fighting stance, ready to attack! Oh, wait; there was nothing there. He heard a snort from behind him, but that turned into a choking sound.

"What the _fuck_ is _that_?" Dean, of course, was referring to the large-sized black cat that strutted into the room, tail high up in the air. Shivering, Sam shut the door with a slam, and with a heavy sigh he flipped on the light switch.

"It's a cat, Dean."

"Like hell it is!" Clearly insulted, the cat hissed at the oldest brother, it's ears and whiskers folded backward. Dean's mouth made an, "o," shape and his brows shot up to his hairline. He shot a look at Sam. "You just going to stand there and let it hiss at me like that? Get it out of here!" He glanced back down at the cat, and his brow folded in confusion. "Are those _horns_?"

Sam merely repeated, softer now, "it's a cat, Dean." Not pleased with his brother's response, Dean looked around, like, "screw this, where are my crutches?" The cat sat down, and made a sneezing sound that warmed Sam right back up. "This… is what I found in the sewer." He admitted, setting down his knife on top of the pizza box. "I didn't—_don't_ feel threatened by it."

"Of course not, he's not looking at you like you're a kitty chow buffet and it is 'all you can eat' time. Get rid of it, Sam, _now_."

"D_ea_n." Dean's cast clad leg purposely slipped off the bed. It cracked off the floor with an echo that made both brothers flinch. That was Dean's answer to Sam's whine, and damn, actions really do speak louder than words. Sam took a step over to the cat, and kneeled down. Albeit with hesitation, he wrapped his arms around it to pick it up, but just as quickly as his skin met the fur he retracted. "He's _wet_, Dean—feels like _ice_!" With wide eye, the cat let out a soft, "_meow_," and feebly lifted a paw. A sound filled with sympathy erupted in the back of Sam's throat. "_Dean_."

"No."

"There's a _blizzard_ out there!" Sam wiped his palms on his thighs and stood up, eyes glued to the demon cat, which was now rubbing against his leg. "_Ooh_." He cooed, like a woman with a ticking biological clock who has just spotted a newborn baby. Dean could only manage to gape at Sam as if he just shot heroin into his eyeball. "Come on, Dean."

"No, _you_ come on. Dad would—" Sam clenched his jaw. People over in Australia heard the cringe worthy sound of his molars grinding together, and collectively told him to quit angsting so loudly.

"Dad's not here." He stated so simply, as if it were the answer to life, the universe, and everything. "I can't just throw it back out there." The brunette swallowed hard, eyes pleading. "Please." His voice cracked perfectly. Too bad the Vicoden that Dean popped earlier watered down his invulnerability to Sam's infamous, "puppy dog eyes," which were being screened at the max right now.

"No."

"I'll keep an eye on him." Sam nodded his head eagerly as if Dean was stuck on a, "maybe."

"It's a demon, Sam. We _hunt_ demons. We're supposed to kill them, not invite them over for a slumber party. Get _rid_ of it." Suddenly, something was telling Sam that by, "rid of it," Dean wasn't just talking about shooing the creature outside.

"He hasn't done anything!" He gestured down at the furry beast, which was stilling there, tail twitching back and forth. It looked rather innocent, yes, but both brothers learned a long time ago that looks could be deceiving.

"Yeah, hasn't done anything… 'cept make you grow freakin' ovaries."

Fuck that shit. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, and looked his brother straight in the eye, as he sternly stated right back at him, "no."

Dean blinked. "W—what?" He wasn't surprised—just caught off guard. Yeah, wait, wasn't he the one saying no? Just who did Sam think he was! "I'm serious, Sam." To prove his seriousness, he—with effort—pushed himself up into an unsteady standing stance. The cat yawned loudly, not intimidated by the crippled twenty-seven year-old. "H_e_y!"

"Give him—her—_it_ a chance."

"When were you bit in the ass by the SPCA?" Dean was still stubborn as ever as he stared down at the furry beast in disbelief. Sam echoed, "it's a cat," which prompted a blunt, "it's _fat_." He shook his head, finally looking away. "I don't want it in here—I want to forget that there's… demonic animals crawling around in the sewer."

"Would you rather it be an alligator?" Sam bent down and scooped the cat into his arms. With a grunt, he held it tightly to his chest, and straightened up. It meowed, eyes flashing.

"Uh, yeah?"

Sam ignored that. "He's not even just a cat—" Dean limped forward, muttering, "obviously," but the younger brother continued, neck and arm muscles straining. "—He's smart, Dean; he followed us here in a blizzard—in—a—blizzard! And he seems to understand what we're saying, and—" His lower lip quivered, the cat like a heavy chunk of ice in his arms. "He's staying—here—with _us_."

"Is he? And what if he eats us, Sam, _hmm_?"

"He won't eat us." The cat chirped in agreement—or, as Dean figured, in _dis_agreement. The damned thing also looked very content in Sam's long, warm arms. Then again, who wouldn't? Dean quirked an inquiring brow at Sam, who sighed, softly stating, "I'll keep him in the bathroom." An ear of the feline twitched back. "How's that?"

"This is ridiculous." Yeah, next John will appear out of nowhere, telling him that there are vampires living amongst them, and the Buffy rules don't abide to the bloodsuckers. _Waitaminute_! "We can't have a demon—here—with _us_."

"And yet, we're going to."

Hell's temperature dropped down to thirty-two degrees, and it _still_ wasn't cold enough, _yet_ that was that.

♠♠♠

Sam was obviously under the influence… of mind control. There was no other way to explain it, or so Dean figured. He was now lying back in bed, eyes wide opened, listening to Sam's snoring and the demonic son of a bitch's shuffling and meowing from inside the bathroom.

Oh, and worst of all? His bladder was bitching to be emptied—now, like right now. _Shit_. He lifted his shoulders and neck, eyes skimming the dark room for any traces of his damned crutches. _Shit, shit, shit_. Why'd he agree to keeping the—oh, wait, he never agreed to anything!

_Payback's a bitch, Sammy_. He silently snapped at Sam earlier, when the younger brother had been setting down a newspaper, a mug of water, and a Styrofoam plate of pizza on the floor for the sweet little kitty. Sweet little kitty his ass—that thing was a _beast_. Huge paws, long tail, and was that a forked tongue?

"Cristo?" He had also tried once last time as Sam slipped into bed. Maybe that wasn't enough… there was a plastic Gatorade bottle of holy water in the table between the beds, right next to the bible and rosemary.

"Man, Dean, I already told you I wasn't possessed! Let it go—_go_ to sleep."

"Yeah, I'm going to sleep just great knowing that the feline version of Cujo is camping out in the bathroom, good idea."

Sam was obviously menstruating with his new set of super cool ovaries, as he had just rolled onto his side, his back and cold shoulder turned toward his brother.

"'Night Sam… see you tomorrow if we're not disemboweled while we slee—"

"_De_an!"

Several minutes later, Sam was fast asleep, as if he hadn't gone crazy, betraying nearly every rule that their father set while growing up. Don't approach a demon, don't pet a demon, don't invite a demon in, or let it into your bathroom. You think that thing flushes, or washes it's hands afterwards? No.

Okay, maybe those weren't his dad's rules verbatim, but they were close, really. Damn. Maybe he should've been tougher on Sam, but… Damn. Just damn. Damn, damn, damn! Dean rolled his hands into tight fists. A thick vein in his forehead throbbed. Oh, yeah, maybe—just maybe—he was a little pissed off.

The pressure on his bladder was enough to turn him into the Incredible Hulk. He couldn't just squeeze his legs together, and lay there, doing a, "I've got to pee!" jig. Hell, he was going to _burst_. Just call him Dean the Geyser! Or not.

"Screw this." Totally. He was Dean Winchester: hunter extraordinaire! He wasn't going to let a forty-seven pound hell beast get the best of him. Beer… now, _that_ he could let get the best of him. After he emptied his bladder, that is. If only… bah, right on, _screw it_, he didn't need crutches to limp awkwardly to the bathroom.

Slowly and quietly, to avoid waking up the brooding Jolly Green Giant, Dean twisted and turned, levering both legs off the bed. _Broken ankle my ass—nothin' wrong with it_. Until the pain medication wore off. Denial wasn't just a river in Egypt. Dean had insisted the doctor order another round of x-rays—_must've been a strand of hair in the way_. That had offended the young doctor, but before he could say anything, Sam, who'd been standing behind his brother's shoulder, shook his head fervently, putting his arms up, mouthing _humor him_, before mumbling, "yeah, must've been."

While Sam stirred in his sleep, Dean shuffled across the room, silently cursing anything and everything. His mood was sour enough to make even Chuck Norris cower and think, "oh, my, maybe I won't roundhouse kick his sweet, hot ass." Wait, what? Dean halted with a wobble, rubbing the top of his head. Damn, even the pain medication had the flying pink elephants seeing flying pink elephants.

Whatever. Shifting weight to his good leg, Dean extended his arm, and shot a look over his shoulder at Sam. The lanky brunette turned onto his side, smacking his lips, oblivious to world around him. Dean smirked, grasping the bathroom doorknob with a cautious hand. His bladder cheered him on, which was quite distracting. Finally, he just twisted the knob and yanked the door open. Like lightning, it brushed past his leg, nearly knocking him off balance, with a triumphant hiss.

"Little shit." He hissed right back, shooting a dagger filled look at Sam's still sleeping form. Jesus, that boy could sleep through a hurricane when he wasn't ailed with freakin' visions. The cat ran under the bed, and peeked out at him with glowing red slanted eyes. He sighed; this damned thing rivaled with vampires for the number one spot on his 'ridiculous shit' list. Anyway, he shambled into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Several minutes later, after a flush and the sound of the sink running, the bathroom door creaked open, and Dean inched out, dragging his cast-clad leg with him. He suddenly heard the pitter-patter of paws, and his eyes widened. "Sam!" He choked out with his brain screaming, "I'm going to kill you!" when something attacked his leg—sharp fangs grazed the calf of his uninjured leg. The attack, and he hated to admit this, caught him off guard, and he lost his balance, tumbling to the ground.

"Dean?" Shuffling noises were heard before the light was flipped on.

"No, _Cain_!"

There was definitely something mentally wrong with Sam when he asked, "what are you doing up?" rather than, "oh, my god, Dean! Are you okay?"

There was a pause, then a hoarse mumble of, "I'm not exactly _up_," as he sat up, rubbing his elbow, which was red from carpet burn. "Jesus Christ Sam, your stupid demon attacked me!" Dean looked for the wound on his leg where he was sure the cat had bit him.

Frowning, Sam looked around the room, quickly spotting a long, crooked bushy tail sticking out from under his bed. His eyes crinkled as he stated, "you scared him!" With an exasperated sigh, he came up behind his brother, trying to hook his arms under Dean's armpits to help him up.

"Get off o' me!"

"I'm not _on_ you just like you're not _up_, now come on, work with me here." Sam wasn't begging—he actually sounded kind of pissed. This made Dean scowl—what did _he_ have to be pissed about? Sam hadn't broken his ankle when he stupidly tripped over a smart aleck black dog, nor did he have a buckets o' crazy brother who insisted on sharing their motel room with—out of all things—a demon.

Dean had been allowing himself to be lifted up, but suddenly jerked down. Pain shot up his tailbone. "Hold on, quit fondling me." He elbowed Sam in the shin before reached over, pulling up his left pants leg to the knee. He examined his unmarked calf with a furrowed brow, his fingertips ghosting over the flesh. Sam kneeled down behind him, peering over him. A knee pressed into Dean's back, a hand on his shoulder. The older brother blinked, deadpanning, "I swear..."

Sam's hand rubbed forward and backward before it hovered down his spine, lingering at the small of his back. The pad of his thumb covered a small hole in the navy colored t-shirt. "I don't see anything." He stated after a long moment of silence. He sniffled, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. "Dean?"

"It bit me."

"I don't—"

"Yeah, well, you're blind." The blonde squinted; there had to be _something_…

"Do _you_ see anything?" Here was a moment of truth—maybe Dean was delusional. Hell, maybe _Sam_ was delusional. At some point, the cat had sauntered over to him, and brushed up against the side of his thigh. He ran his free hand down it's flexible spine, "You probably stepped on his tail, startled him, and he pawed at your leg." Sam, like Dean, couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth—he just wasn't getting any bad vibes from the creature. It was so weird how he felt like he could… _trust_ it.

"Mind control." Dean decided, hunched forward, the word _Cristo_ ready to roll off his tongue again, "mind control. Or—" He smirked, holding back a snicker, "he's _probably_ releasing pheromones, and you're responding to them like a horny kitten."

Sam's lips twitched into a frown. "To the moon, Alice, _to the moon_," he mumbled, his hand now slapping back to Dean's shoulder. "I'm tired, Dean—real freakin' exhausted. Now, I'm going to help—"

Dean cleared his throat, staring forward.

"Assist—"

He did it again, this time glancing up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly at the bright fluorescent light.

"Chaperone?"

"_Chaperone_?"

"_Ugh_!" He was less than three seconds away from ripping out a patch of his hair. "You're getting into bed, Franklin's going back into the bathroom, and then I'm going to sleep—got it?" He didn't wait for a response. "Good."

Dean wasn't too impressed, but still smugly stated, "Geesh Sammy, you're starting to sound like a real topper."

"Up!" Sam groaned, not wanting to hear another word. He straightened up, extending a hand, which Dean had reluctantly accepted, and pulled his brother to his feet. Once balance was restored, Dean shooed him away, limping ("crutches, Dean, _crutches_!") back to bed.

The fatigue of sleep was tugging at him, both mentally and physically. His eyes drooped once he was settled, and he let out a long exhale. In no time, the room went dark, and he heard Sam's bed creaking as he slid his long frame under the covers.

Half a minute later, an eye popped open. "_Franklin_?"

♠♠♠


	3. Chapter 3

♠♠♠

Dean hadn't woken up with a jerk, nor had he lain there, awake, but eyes closed. One minute he was in the mountains with Tyra, next his eyes were opened, though unfocused. His tongue felt like an oversized ball of cotton in his mouth. He was laying on his stomach, the duffel bag and pillows no longer under his leg, but now piled on the floor. With a grunt, he buried his face into the soft pillow—one half of it was stuck under his head, the rest flopping off the edge of his bed.

Suddenly, like a red-hot cattle prod to the shoulder, Dean lifted his head and shoulders. He twisted his body into a sitting position before he could even form a coherent thought. There was a dull pain throbbing within his ankle, and his knee was stiff, but all that was pushed aside when he saw that the bathroom door was wide open. It—the door—stared back at him almost tauntingly, as the word "fuck," rolled off his cotton-esque tongue.

The next word, of course, was "Sam," and his eyes darted to where his younger brother slept. That was where he found the little bundle of doom curled up to Sam's side. His protective streak flared up, as had his nostrils. You know what rule came after not allowing it into your bathroom? 'Do not sleep with demons.' Although, now thinking about it, Dean wondered if it made the, 'do not sleep with the enemy,' rule redundant. All demons were enemies, right?

Not on Angel—or Buffy. Dean couldn't ever see himself befriending a vampire or a demon. There wasn't any room with the wholesome and user friendly Winchester Trio (John? Not included. The Impala? Included). Besides, he had Sam (and the gorgeous Impala). Beat that, Angel and Buffy, _beat that_. Oh, wait, _cancelled_, just like Charmed. Maybe another time, maybe another show, bitches.

Do you know what time it is? Pill popping time, because there was no way Dean could handle this ridiculous situation while not on a high. He took the recommended amount, because really, the last thing he needed was another addiction, and he also took the medication dry; retrieving a drink of water would involve moving. He set the opened orange pill bottle on the table between the two beds, and kept the white cap pressed into the palm of his hand.

"Sam." He worked out the name, pronouncing it like an accented, "say_um_." The aforementioned young man barely stirred. In fact, Dean was sure his snoring got _louder_. The cat's tail twitched. He puckered his lips pensively, before looking down at the cap in his hand. A, 'hmm,' sound purred out the back of his throat before he flung the bottle cap at the sleeping cat. It bounced off it's stomach and rolled off the bed. The demon lifted up it's head in Dean's direction, and hissed before it fell back down lazily.

And you know what? Dean hissed right back at it.

♠♠♠

"Would you quit staring at him while you're sharpening your knife?" Sam asked of his brother while the snowstorm outside their dinky motel complex brewed on stronger than before. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, playing Solitaire with a deck of cards. The "him," he was referring to was, in fact, the demon; he'd found out that it was a male demonic feline. The cat—Franklin, as Sam named him—laid on the chair behind Sam, glaring at Dean from over the brunette's shoulder. It's tail, which hung off the seat of the chair, swayed back and forth.

"I'm not looking at him, I'm looking at you."

Uninterested, and ever so slightly peeved, Sam focused on his card game, chewing on a thumbnail while his eyes skimmed the cards in front of him. Damn, why was it he won so much effortlessly on the computer? He folded an arm behind his head, allowing Franklin to rub his whiskers lovingly against the back of his hand. The scraping sounds of Dean sharpening the said knife ceased. "Somethin' wrong, Dean?"

Dean hadn't missed a beat. "Why _Franklin_?" It sounded like the name for a turtle, not a psychotic, and possibly mind controlling, devil cat. Sam flipped over a card, his fingers lingering on the smooth surface hesitantly. His top set of teeth caressed over his bottom lip. He glanced up, wearing a wide, boyish grin.

"Franklin Delano Roosevelt—he's my favorite president. He was in office for twelve years, you know. Only president to serve more than two terms."

Dean carefully set down his knife on the nightstand. He pressed a palm to his abdomen, absently smoothing out his shirt's wrinkles. "Okay, so, you named a demon after your favorite president? Real sweet, Sam, but now I see how badly screwed up we are."

"Excuse me? If I asked you to name him, he'd be going around as, 'Led,' or, 'Ozzy,' or that weird tongue guy from Kiss, or—"

"First of all, I wouldn't _name_ a demon. He's not a pet, dude. Secondly, 'that weird tongue guy from Kiss'? Have I taught you _nothing_?"

"Richard…?"

Dean looked as if he were about to slap his palm to his, or even Sam's, forehead. "_Gene_."

"Simmons!" Sam finished rather enthusiastically, slapping a hand to his knee. Damn, the kid brother part of him just loved to resurface long enough to yank some chains. "I'm just kidding; I know the difference between Richard and Gene Simmons." He waited until Dean rolled his eyes to lamely add, "brothers, right?"

The once white motel phone with the knotted cord suddenly let out a shrilling ring. Startled, Franklin darted across the room in the blink of an eye. Sam stared down blankly at his cards, which were now scattered around messily. Too bad, he thought he really had a chance at winning the game. "You going to get that?"

Dean casually picked up a conveniently placed gun magazine and began to flip through it. "Get what?" He started to ask, but was cut off by another cry from the telephone. He crankily wrinkled up his nose, eyes glued admiringly to a fabulous looking piece of weaponry printed on a page of the said magazine, "no, someone might try to talk to me or somethin'."

The phone let out another impatient ring. With a grunt, Sam moved forward, walking on his knees. "Fine, don't move your arm two inches to the right to answer, I'll get it. I'd hate for you to pull a muscle, or somehow manage to trip over the phone."

Dean nearly choked on his saliva. "Hey! Cheap shot, freakin' _cheap shot_, Sam!"

"Sorry." The apology sounded genuine, which sort of bothered the older brother, but he shrugged it off.

"Yeah, you ought to be."

"Am. Totally." Sam mumbled, no longer sounding earnest as he picked up the phone, bringing it to his ear. "Hello, room one-eighty…" He blinked, eyes darting sideways at the blonde lounging on the bed beside him. "Yeah, yeah, we are."

"Are what?"

"_Shh_!"

"Bored out of our ever-loving minds? Doomed? Suave and devastatingly handsome? Well, at least _one_ of us is." From over in the chair, Franklin hissed, as if he, too, were telling Dean to shut his trap. "Oh, go choke on catnip."

The younger brother cupped his hand over the bottom half of the phone. His eyes flickered with impatience. "Dean, please leave Franklin alone."

"Sorry, Mr. President." His apology to the demon lacked that genuine flavor. Franklin, who stood in the doorway of the bathroom, unperturbedly stretched out his front legs; arching his back, slowly easing out those monstrous claws, snubbing the half-assed apology. "I don't think Frankie likes me."

Sam, after dropping a few more words, hung up, and stated ever so earnestly, his chin tilted high, "It's Frank_lin_." Before any sarcastic comebacks were shot out like torpedoes, he hastily added, "We just got a friendly little reminder that we still have to pay each day we're snowed in." He sat back against the side of Dean's bed, not caring the metal frame dug into his back. "I'll pay in cash." Needless to say, Sam was waiting for their life of fraud to sneak up, hogtie, and then bite them in the ass.

"We're not made out of money, Sam; make every other payment in cash." Unexpectedly, a laugh (a _laugh_!) erupted from Sam. Though, actually, it was more like a burst of cackling laughter. He flopped his head back. Dean tugged on a dark tress of hair, and stated in mocked sincerity, "I'm serious." He frowned forcefully, feigning to be offended.

"Yeah, you are." He let out another throaty laugh, but sighed, rubbing the side of his face. "It's still snowing. How long do you think we'll be stuck here?"

"_Still_ snowing? I'm thinking Donner Party: Part II."

"Oh, man, gross, just _gross_." He leaned forward, about to stand up, maybe to wander two feet away, but Dean reached down, clamping a hand to his shoulder.

"Just call me Hannibal." Hannibal the Cannibal Winchester!

"You do realize that—"

"You'd clog up my arteries?"

"No, no, _you_'d clog up _my_ arteries." Oh, god, they weren't actually having this discussion, were they? Oh. They were—but Dean's grip on Sam's shoulder was tight, but not too tight, and even he chuckled along with Sam. It was as if some tension had worn away. Well, either that, or there _was_ a gas leak. Kidding. It had to be the medication—_had_ to be. Or maybe—just maybe—they were just being brothers, engaging in gross, brotherly banter.

Franklin still stood in the doorway, his lengthy tail sweeping in a slow, wide swath in mid-air. He simply stared at the sight of the brothers, unmoving except for the motion of his tail. It seemed almost as if he were lost in thought, or just thinking—_plotting_—of something, or someone. Hell, or maybe he just was enjoying the view of the two Winchesters, merrily chattering about who would breakdown and, if need be, eat the other brother first.

He twitched an ear. Weirdos.

♠♠♠

"Cable's out." Yeah, and not to mention, the laptop was forgetfully left in the trunk of the car, and their stomachs were starting to rumble. Conveniently, there was a soda and a candy machine down the hall from their room, and Sam already took the liberty of raiding them. "This bites." The television was on mute so Dean wouldn't have to hear a blast of static as he flipped through the stations.

"Out loud?"

"Really hard." Sam nodded, barely listening. He still sat on the ground, cross-legged, playfully teasing Franklin with the shoelace he took out of Dean's right boot. The frisky demon pawed hastily at the black string, and Sam wore a ridiculous grin, even chuckling at times. "_Geesh_." Dean shoved a handful of stale (just how long has that candy machine been out there?) pretzels into his mouth.

The brunette shot him a look, but kept his attention centered on the cat. Suddenly, something caught his eye, and he dropped the shoelace, reaching forward, planting a hand firmly on Franklin's back. "Whoa, he's…"

"A _demon_?" Like hell Dean was ever going to let that go. A few crumbs and specks of salty saliva flew from his mouth. "'Cause I've been—"

"Growing _feathers_ on his back, above his shoulder blades."

Dean sat up straighter, rolling a stiff shoulder. He failed to look impressed, or even curious. "Feathers, huh? So?" Out of all the shit he has experienced, a feathered demonic feline actually wasn't the most outrageous creature he had seen. Now, if the damned thing could _talk_… sure, that'd be interesting.

Sam gently brushed his calloused fingers over the dark patch of small, smooth feathers. Franklin continued to claw at the abandoned shoelace, not quite done with this activity yet. "Wings, Dean. _Wings_."

"Frankie's growing wings? I don't know Sam, sounds kind of fruity."

The younger male frowned. "Franklin's not fruity." His lips curved back into a smile when Franklin sneakily pounced on the thick string. "I find it kind of ironic… horns and wings. Symbolic, don't you think?"

"Uh, no? Not really." Dean wasn't convinced that a few feathers equaled wings. However, he could definitely go for some hot wings with celery and blue cheese. His stomach heartily agreed with a hollowed rumble. "We got any pizza left?" Sam shook his head.

"We have an old bag of canned food in the trunk, but other than that, it's Cheetos and Snickers galore." Now it was Dean's turn to frown, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I don't know how you expect me to heal properly on an empty stomach." His mouth stated matter-of-factly, while his brain crossly said, "I don't know how you expect me to heal properly on an empty stomach… _and alcohol_." Dean wasn't an alcoholic; he just wanted that deliciously numb buzz, which the pain medication was nearly able to do, but without falling asleep.

"Yeah, I'm a horrible brother." Sam moved up onto his bed, an empty bag of Fritos crinkling and the old springs groaning under his weight. Franklin remained on the floor, now lying on his back, front paws in the air, fat stomach exposed. "Hey…" He lifted his gaze from the cat to meet his brother's. "If he's half-demon, half-cat, do you think there are people who are…" He trailed off for a second, hands absently fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. "Half-demon?"

There was this look in Sam's eyes that made Dean uncomfortable, and not want to answer. He shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know, ask dad; he'll probably know."

"Yeah, ask dad. Easier said than done—I'd be lucky to get _coordinates_ in response." Bitter much? Hell yeah.

"I meant _when_ we find him." Yes, when—not if, _never_ if. A warm spread of pain trailed up his leg, and yet he shivered, shifting uneasily. "My ass fell asleep." He moved again, but this time the shifting generated a hot rush of pain to flare up. He exhaled sharply, tired muscles tensing, preparing for another attack. "_Christ_." He hissed under his breath. "Quit staring at me."

"I'm not." Sam grabbed an orange pill container off the nightstand between their beds, and popped it open. "One or two?"

"Wasn't talking to _you_—" He nodded down at Franklin. The demon, from a sitting stance, was now staring at him, but looked away. "—And four."

Sam shook his head. "Two."

"Three."

"_One_." Franklin's glowing eyes glanced back and forth between them as if he were watching a swaying shoelace. The clump of feathers on his back rustled amusingly.

"Two and a half."

"A _half_."

"_Half_ of eight?"

He shook his head again. "_Dean_."

"Two, Sam, I'll take _two_. Bitchy little heckler." Sam got to his feet, dropping the two white pills in Dean's opened palm before moving away to retrieve water. Except, the second he turned his back, Dean brought his palm to his mouth, tilting his head back to swallow the pills once they touched his tongue. A chalky taste lingered in his mouth; he smacked his lips together loudly.

As Sam moved in long strides across the room, Franklin tried to keep up, moving in between his legs, nearly tripping him. "Don't do that." The brunette politely asked of the demon, stopping to pick up a bottle of water off the chair next to the table. Franklin now rubbed his body against Sam's calf, merrily purring. "I think he's hungry."

"So why don't you cut off your hand and feed it to him?" Realization struck and Dean furrowed his brow, resting a hand on his abdomen. "Hey, I'm hungry, too."

"I can't cut off both my hands." Sam barked out a short laugh. "Dad always said having a pet around would cost an arm and a leg." Sam was actually sure that their father never uttered those _exact_ words, but that was beside the point, really now.

"For the last time, he's not a _pet_, he's a _demon_." Instantly, Franklin's ears flattened, and Sam made this odd noise that made Dean want to hit him upside the head with his cast.

"You hurt his feelings, jerk."

"Yeah, I can understand how demons hate to be referred to as that stereotypical word, "_demons_." Get real, man."

Slowly, after several seconds of silence, a smug smirk curved back on Sam's lips. "You get riled up way too easily in your old age, Dean."

"Dude, you're _purposely_ yanking my chain?"

"I'm not yanking anything." Sam kneeled down in front of Franklin, poking at the cat's horns before stroking his long back with the heel of his palm. "I'm going to run out to the car—for the emergency food we keep in there." He wasn't asking, so Dean just shrugged, which nearly surprised Sam, who was expecting a snappy retort. Several minutes later, after he was clad in layered clothing, boots on, tightly laced, he held out his right hand to Dean. The older brother looked up, one brow cocked impatiently.

"What?"

"The keys, Dean, the _keys_."

♠♠♠

Twenty-seven seconds after Sam walked out that door, Dean was standing up, arms awkwardly stretched out to keep balance. Franklin jumped onto a chair, bearing his teeth, but not hissing.

"Cut your crap, Frankie—the world doesn't revolve around _you_." He staggered a few steps before stopping, shoulders hunched, cursing at the pain that had yet to numb away. "It revolves around _me_."

The cat's whiskers folded backward, one ear twitching, all like, "bitch, _please_." He then proceeded to jump onto the table, practically knocking everything off it before the unsteady table toppled the hell over. At the sound of wood cracking, and screws rolling around on the uncarpeted area of the floor, Dean groaned, pressing a palm to his forehead. Franklin had let out a strangled, "_meow_!" before dashing across the room in the blink of an eye. The blonde shot it a dirty look; how could something that fat move so quickly?

Dean slowly moved toward the broken table, bending forward at the hips and shoulders every time he put weight on his injured foot. "I even make limping look cool." He feigned arrogance, breath hitching, trying to heartily encourage himself without making a face. "You're not moving like an eighty-two year old man with a stick shoved up his ass… you're moving like… a… oh, hell." It was hard to lie to a face like his.

"'_Rr_ow?" Franklin looked around the room frantically, terribly missing that tall brunette with those dreamy eyes. With boredom, his dim red eyes landed on Dean. He made this odd chirping noise, and looked completely relaxed… but then he charged forward, gritting those fangs; his ears and whiskers folded back.

Dean, though he would deny it, let out a half-yell, and tried to grab at his crutches, which were propped up against the wall, but they were not within his reach. He ended up stumbling forward into the wall. He leaned there, trying to keep steady; palms and forearms flat against the cool, smooth surface, and looked behind his shoulder just in time to see Franklin make a beeline… right smack into the wall, too. "That's got to hurt."

A small black feather floated to the ground. "M_rrr_o_ow_." The cat plopped onto his side, and then rolled onto his back, large paws—claws out—in the air. While clawing fitfully at the air, Franklin started to moan, his raspy voice high-pitched enough to make Dean flinch. His stressed out, "meows," sounded suspiciously like Dean's brother's name.

Franklin was totally gay for Sam. Dean cocked his head to the side. Sure, everything and everyone's a freakin' Sam!girl, Sam!boy, and now… Sam!demon-kitty. "You've got to be kidding me." Nope! "Damn." Dean shook his head, and then tried to turn his attention back to staggering around the room. "Now, where was I going?" Oh, you mean other than to the brink of insanity? Nowhere in particular. "Okay, what was I doing?" Other than staggering around in the room, narrowly missing a demon cat stampede? Nothing in particular.

A half-frozen Sam was expected back any minute, but Dean really wanted to stretch out his muscles. He remained steadily supported by the wall, his weight shifted onto one leg, and honestly, this position wasn't at all comfortable. His hip was bruised from where he landed on a bulky rock. An image of that careless, rude black dog (which had to have _pushed_ him! He did not _trip_, did not; _did not_!) flashed in his mind, and he glared down at Franklin. He hated evil.

Demons? Like, without a doubt evil.

Cats? Oh, yeah, man, totally evil. Like, phenomenally evil. Wicked.

So, all of this? Was like a double whammy of all that was evil. It was even starting to make his skin itch—must be allergic.

Franklin rolled around twice before twisting onto all fours. He stared up at Dean, waiting. Dean stared back, jaw tightly clenched. "I'm on to you." The growing patch of feathers on Franklin's back twitched at him. "Really." A not-so-intimidated ripple breezed through the plot of feathers. "Snow's going to stop sometime, Frankie—melt, too, and then we're out of here." The sneer he wore silently added the, "sans _you_, bitch."

Now, the cat sat there, and pointedly looked away, yawning because running head first into walls really tired a demon out. It was obvious Dean wasn't a threat to the demon, and honestly, the blonde didn't really blame him; he was, after all, standing there, holding onto the wall, half of a leg in a white cast. He was hot though, so take that!

The motel door flew open, and through a breeze of flurries in came Samuel Winchester, half-frozen as expected. His clothing, especially his layered clothed limbs, was coated with a thin layer of snow, which revealed that he might have (read: definitely) tripped (read: wasn't _pushed_ by a vicious, heartless black dog) a few times. The door slammed shut behind him, and the bag of canned food dropped to the ground. "F—fr—free_zing_!" He shook his head, which resembled a dog (_oh_, let's say… a _yorkie_!) drying off, and frozen clumps of snow fell from his hair and clothing onto the floor.

Dean remained facing the wall. "It's slowing down out there, right?"

"Yeah, it's… what _the hell_?" Sounded like shivering Sam finally laid eyes on the overturned table and the mess surrounding it. "What are you doing out of bed? And why is the table not _upright_? I left for, like, three minutes, Dean! _Three_! I can't leave you alone for _three_ minutes?" With watching eyes, he stripped off his jacket, and the hoodie he wore underneath it, and then the button-down plaid shirt. He kicked off his shoes, and then pulled off his soaked jeans so that he was now clad in socks, briefs, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a regular t-shirt over the long-sleeved one. He scrunched his mouth to the side, watching Dean. "Are you going to keep fondling the wall, or do you need help?" He looked down at Franklin with a long, tired sigh.

"Help? I don't need help. Go help yourself." The pain mediation finally kicked in, and Dean blinked a few times. Was he really still standing there? "Whoa." He looked down, narrowing his green eyes, and raised his brows when he noticed that there were two dents in the wall from Franklin's horns. "He's no Kitty Pryde, that's for sure."

Sam cocked his head to the side, squinting. "Are you all right?" His brain was already in the process of making a checklist of things to do: 1.) Get Dean back into bed, and, if necessary, handcuff him to the headboard, 2.) Pick up table, and then proceed to clean up around it, and 3.) Grab a change of clothes, and take a long, hot shower—_really_ long, and _really_ hot.

Unfortunately, his stomach growled, reminding him that he, along with the two other living beings in the room, was hungry, and that trip to the Impala wasn't for nothing. However, his core body temperature had yet to rise, thus his pearly whites were chattering away nonstop, and Dean was still hanging out with the wall, and Franklin was staring up at him, his eyes noticeably brighter. "Dean? Hungry?"

Finally, Dean grunted, and looked behind his shoulder. "Yeah, Dean hungry." He sarcastically admitted, all caveman-esque. "Dean also got a cramp in his leg—_fuck_." At least that explained why he stood there, body tense, and unmoving. Sam let out a breath of air he'd been unknowingly holding in.

The motel room, while already small, had a small kitchen area—just an electrical stovetop, an out-of-order oven, and a small sink. Luckily, there was a handle to a stainless steel saucepan sticking out of the bag on the floor. Sam cupped both hands around his mouth and exhaled his cold, numb fingers. "D'you want soup or raviolis? I think there also might be a can of Spaghetti O's."

"What, no steak?"

"Damn. Must've dropped it outside." The brunette rubbed his palms up and down either arm; goose bumps had already begun to rise.

"Bitch." Dean joked as he pushed himself away from the wall. Since Sam's bed was closer, he pitifully limped the three feet it took to get there, and sat down, wiggling his brows when Sam scoffed out, "that's _my_ bed." The older brother nodded, lip curving into a smirk. "Yeah, I can tell by all the demon cat and Sammy hair that you two have shed _everywhere_."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, stubbornly stating, "I don't _shed_."

"Sure you don't."

"Shut up; I'm making you soup."

Dean was quiet for a few seconds. Was that a _threat_? Whatever. "I don't want _soup_." He uttered out soup as if he would end up with a cold bowl of Chicken and Stars. Hell, he didn't want freakin' raviolis or Spaghetti O's either, but his stomach disagreed. "Raviolis; meat or cheese?" Franklin sauntered on over to the bag, sniffing it, interested. He pressed down a paw on the saucepan's handle, tipping the bag over. A can of Spaghetti O's rolled out. One of his small wings fluttered before he pounced at it.

"Uh, meat? Yeah, meat, I guess. Want that?" Sam grunted, turning the table upright. He sloppily placed the fallen items back on the said table.

_Want that_? Dean wanted a well-done steak smothered in A1 Steak Sauce, creamy mashed potatoes coated in thick gravy, buttered corn on the cob, a case of cold beer, _not_ to have a broken ankle, a new crossbow… "It'll do." He absently traced a pattern on the quilt beneath him with his index finger. His nail caught on a loose thread.

_I'm sorry it's not up to your standards_. Sam almost barked out, but caught himself, and instead smiled with a nod. "Good." It would have to do. It wasn't as if they had much of a bigger option while growing up on the road. "Guess I'll have the Spaghetti O's then, and maybe heat up soup for Franklin." Demons liked soup, right?

"I think Frankie has already claimed your Spaghetti O's." He nodded down at the aforementioned cat, Sam's gaze following. "Next the little bitch will be trying to steal your Lucky Charms." Silly demon, Lucky Charms was for Sammy! "You going to stand for that, Sam?"

Sam sniffled, and offhandedly commented in the negative; that he was going to _sit down_, and did, on Dean's rumpled bed. He peeled off his white socks, tossing them carelessly to the ground. His face was still flushed from the cold, and parts of his mop of hair were now damp. "Could you…" He trailed off, biting his tongue once he realized what he was going to ask of Dean—to grab his duffel bag, which while was closer to his brother, sat several _feet_ away, abandoned by the rattling heater. "Never mind."

It wasn't long until Sam, freshly clad in gray sweatpants and a maroon colored sweatshirt, was stirring Chef Boyardee beef raviolis in tomato and meat sauce at the stove, like a good wife. Franklin was circling around his feet, nosily mewing, his tail hungrily twitching.

"Feed yourself first." Dean had told him earlier, face scrunching up when he saw Sam dumping the ravioli into the pan. The younger brother pointedly ignored him, busying himself by reading the directions label on the can, which made Dean scoff, "dork." Sam was the only person (or, more compassionately, "weirdo,") that he knew who would read directions (well, "precautions,") off those freakin' air freshener sprays before every initial use.

"I'll eat after I shower." He stabbed at a defenseless ravioli with a plastic spork, already feeling Dean breathing down his neck from across the goddamned room.

"You showered last night."

"I _know_ that, but it gives me something to do."

A wry smile stretched over Dean's face. "Really? And just what are you doing in there that gives you, "something to do"?"

"_Bathing_. You should try it sometime." The tub was, after all, the reason Sam wanted the room; so Dean could bathe. Not that he smelled; it was just that he wasn't supposed to put weight on his injured leg, thus he couldn't stand to take a shower. Sam had an extra garbage bag in his duffel bag to wrap around Dean's cast covered leg so that he could take a bath later. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking on his knuckle where there had been a spot of sauce. "You will."

"That a hint?"

"It's something." They exchanged a look that could be misinterpreted as, "eye shagging," but the cat (more so or less) had really started to distract Sam. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you." He promised, earning an eye roll from the shorter male.

"Quit that shit." Sam gave him this confused, hurt puppy dog look. "The talking nonsense. It's like people doing that stupid baby gibberish to infants."

"Would you rather the, "stupid baby gibberish," to the demon, Dean?" He didn't wait for a response. "And you know, I don't think he's that old—maybe a kitten?" Oh, a demon kitten? Yeah, that was rich. "He just doesn't seem like, I don't know, a cat—"

"Wow, you think that might be because he's a demon? Besides, look at him, he's _huge_." Franklin shot him a dirty glace, all like, "I'm _big-boned_, you insensitive twit."

"Like you said, he's a demon, so maybe for feline demons, his size is normal, or average. I've been giving this a lot of thought—"

"That's _never_ good."

"Stop interrupting me!"

Dean hadn't missed a beat. "Stop neglecting my raviolis."

With a weary sigh, Sam, now using a spoon, stirred the raviolis as the excess sauce around the sides started to boil. Within a few minutes, he was handing Dean a bowl of hot raviolis in a plastic blue bowl he found among a few other pieces of the like crammed into the broken oven. "Anything else?" He asked, sans sarcasm. Keeping his gaze locked down, Dean shook his head, and shrugged a shoulder. Steam rose from the food, tickling his nostrils.

With that now out of the way, Sam washed the saucepan, and then opened up a can of soup. "It's alphabet soup, so please don't choke on the little letters." Dean looked up, quirking a brow, lips tainted red. Sam grinned sheepishly. "What?"

"Nothing, you sad, _sad_ boy."

Sam, insulted, put a hand to his hip. "I poisoned your food."

"Good, now I have something to look forward to." Waiting for death was such a treat! Then again, wasn't that exactly what he was waiting for, what with Franklin, (for the millionth time) a demon cat, staying with them? Damn. Dean hurriedly stuffed his mouth with ravioli.

♠♠♠


	4. Chapter 4

♠♠♠

"When I get out of the shower, I expect you to be on your own bed." Sam admonished as he walked into the bathroom, holding a towel. He heard Dean mockingly ask, "Is that permission to move, master?" and answered by closing the door tightly. He sighed, leaning against the door, rubbing his closed eyes with the back of his hand. When he dropped his hand, and opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was Franklin, sitting proudly on the lidded toilet. "Oh." Maybe he should've named him Houdini.

Franklin blinked slowly, unmoving, but watching Sam closely. The brunette turned his back to the cat, fingers hesitantly pulling at the hemline of his sweatshirt. Damn. He could practically _feel_ the demon's eyes burning holes into his back. He scrunched up his brow, and looked behind his shoulder. Yep, Franklin was staring at him pretty intently. Creepy, it was… very, really creepy.

"Look, a mouse!" Sam tried, whipping around, pointing at the floor space beside the toilet. However, Franklin hadn't been born yesterday, or at least, presumably he hadn't been born yesterday. The cat didn't do as much as twitch. "Damn." Oh, tough it up, soldier! Sam had a _girlfriend_, and even lived with her. If he could get undressed in front of her, he could get undressed in front of a demonic animal, right? Sure, why not!

Sam pulled the sweatshirt up over his head, and heard the fervent flapping of a small set of wings. A blush crept up his neck. He twirled around, his arms still in the sweatshirt, and chuckled nervously. _Oh, god_. Franklin blinked one eye quicker than the other, which might've been a wink, and Sam groaned, disturbed as hell. The cat chirped lowly, perhaps encouraging Sam to continue to strip down. Bow chicka bow wow.

Oh, come on now! This was stupid, totally ridiculous. Sam agreed to that, and finished getting out of his shirt. He folded it in half and set it in the sink. _Just do it quickly_, a voice in Sam's head urged, which caused him to laugh. Hey, if there was anything guys were good at, it was doing things quickly. He told himself that he was just being paranoid. He tugged down his sweatpants, but as soon as they reached mid-thigh, he swore he heard Franklin growl—an _aroused_ growl. He jumped; pulling those pants right back up.

"I give up—I'm done here." He decided, grabbing his sweatshirt off the sink. He quickly pulled it on, not caring that it was inside out. Franklin let out a disappointed meow, and Sam swung open the bathroom door, eyes wide.

"That was quick." Dean musingly commented. He was kicked back on his own bed, both arms folded behind his head. He laid in a slant, nearly diagonally on the bed. "And your hair isn't even _wet_. You really _are_ a wonder, Sam."

"Bite me."

"'Nother time; looks like I have competition." Amused, Dean nodded down, but Sam hadn't needed to look down as he felt a certain cat rubbing up lovingly against his leg. "Am I invited to the wedding?" Yeah, and Dean couldn't wait to see and hear the pitter-patter of little part demon, part feline, and part Sammy feet—er, paws? Hooves?

Sam shot him a look, and decided that the shower could wait, 'cause he was freakin' hungry as can be. He walked toward the door, where a bag of food was, but the sight of an eaten through can of Spaghetti O's caught his eye. He cursed, eyes wider than before, and picked up the empty can. "I can't believe it."

Dean only managed to look half as surprised as his brother. "Guess you'll be having alphabet soup—try not to choke on the small letters." Sam grabbed a pillow off the ground, and whipped it at him.

♠♠♠

"Watch him." Sam solemnly admonished Dean, pointing down at the demon. Franklin, with flattened ears, made an offended grunting noise. Dean glanced down, and then up before shaking his head, muttering, "no." The brunette gaped down at his older brother, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "Dean!" He said, the, "you're supposed to watch out for me," implied by his sharp tone.

"Your demon—your problem." Ruh-r_o_h! "Besides, I can't operate heavy machinery."

Sam made a face, mouthing the last four words of his brother's absurd statement in confusion. "What?" He asked, his voice cracking humorously on the vowel sound, but he changed his mind, shaking his head. "Never mind. Just make sure he doesn't…"

"Go all Peeping Tom on your ass?" Dean offered a little too merrily for Sam's liking, but, to his obvious dismay, Dean cleared his throat louder than necessary, continuing. "I don't know, Sammy, he doesn't look like a pervert to me." Yeah, he looked like a darling, innocent angel. The blonde compressed his lips, pushing back the, "yeah, right," that wanted to escape.

"I never called him a pervert." Not entirely true. Earlier, he had whispered in his brother's ear, "Frankie watches me while I undress. It's got perverted written all over it," and Dean had replied with a surprised, "Dude, you just called Roosevelt, _Frankie_." Sam scowled at his response, and purposely knocked the back of his hand into Dean's white cast, but with the painkillers still working their sweet, sweet magic, it went unnoticed. "He's just… _curious_."

Okay, honestly, Dean found this situation a little humorous. "Sammy-curious? You bet." He laughed when Sam scoffed out his name. "What? Maybe he wants to know how many licks and nibbles it takes to get to the center of _your_ tootsie pop." After a few seconds of silence, both brothers grimaced, turning their head in the opposite direction. "Um, you go do your thing in the shower, or whatever, and I'll continue to sit here, pretending I'm in Bizarro world."

"… And watch him, right?"

"Why yes, Sam, I'll _watch_ him, and if he plays his cards right, I might even _dance_ with him." It was painstakingly obvious how quickly Dean's patience, which wasn't too thick in the first place, was wearing thin, thus Sam practically skipped merrily into the bathroom without so much as glancing back. "And I thought you were a big ol' fruitcake." Dean commented dryly, exchanging a look with Franklin. "Which you still are, don't get me wrong, man." Nutty as a fruitcake, eh? And yet, who was talking to the demon?

In a matter of no time, the sound of blasting water penetrated the silent air. The cat's eats twitched, as did his tail, and he gazed longingly at the bathroom door. He then looked back at Dean, who sternly shook his head, and then decidedly went back to staring at the door. "Mrrow. 'R_rr_ow! 'Rrr, '_rr_, 'ow! Mm_mmm_rrr. M_rrr_mmmm, '_mmm_."

Despite himself, Dean's face had broken out into a wide grin. "Go over and scratch the door!" He ordered with a snicker, wanting to make Sam extra paranoid, and to possibly piss him off. Franklin cheerfully scampered forward, pouncing at the door with his sharp claws out. It wasn't long before a groan of "_Dean_!" was heard (and too bad it wasn't a happy, low moan), which was followed by a childish slur of, "make it stop!"

You know what the best part of all was? It had finally stopped snowing outside.

♠♠♠

A while later, Dean sat at the edge of his bed, a clean shirt folded over his knee. He scrunched his lips in thought, briefly wondering what the hell was taking Sam so long, but decided the younger male was probably taking his sweet time shaving… his legs, that is. Oh, yeah, that was a good one, wasn't it? Dean mentally gave himself a high-five in the victory of that awesome burn.

After a deep sigh, the blonde pulled off his shirt, lazily throwing it onto Sam's bed. He closed his eyes as he yawned, stretching his arms out over his head. He arched his back into it cracked, and then rotated his shoulders until they popped. He smacked his lips together tiredly, rubbing the tip of an index finger into his ear with his head tilted to the side. Dean then dropped both hands to his lap, rubbing his index finger and thumb together.

Suddenly, the bathroom door swung open. An extra clean Sam walked out of the bathroom, a damp towel thrown over his right shoulder. "I tied the shower curtain to the side so you can finally…" He paused, breath caught in throat, eyebrows raised to his hairline. He seemed at a loss for words, and his mouth kept twitching, getting wider and wider. "_Oh, Dean_." He sighed lightly, almost in a sing-along voice, lifting an arm to point behind Dean's freckled shoulder. "You have an admirer."

Indeed he did. Dean whipped his head around; only to find Franklin—freakin' Franklin—perched up on the chair behind his bed, staring at him with wide, wide eyes that glowed ever so brightly. His jaw was slack, and he looked as if he just found a new religion—the Holy Church of Dean, 'cause holy shit, did the man ever have such a nice back, and arms, and, hot damn people, those shoulders, and, _oh my_, Franklin bit back a moan, while Dean let out a disgusted groan and covered his chest with the clean shirt.

"Sam, make him go away." The older brother cleared his throat. "Please."

"I don't know Dean, I think he's curious about _your_ tootsie pop."

"I swear to _God_, Sam, I will—quit laughing! Stop it, Sam_my_! I have a _gun_!" Dean reached under the covers and pulled out a loaded pistol to show that he did, indeed, have a gun, and the man knew how to use it, oh yeah he did, but Sam wasn't an idiot.

"You won't shoot me."

"Got me. But the demon, Sam, the cat?" As if anything Dean could do would threaten him, Franklin leaped onto Dean's bed, already purring. "Hell no! Get away from me!" Dean Winchester was not afraid of demons, or cats, but a Sam!guy turned Dean!guy demonic cat? Maybe, _just maybe_ that was another story. He stood up, and Sam came up to him, grabbing his elbow. "Damn, I knew being this good looking would come back to bite me in the ass."

"Better watch it, he looks like he wants a piece of your ass."

Dean sighed. What a burden it was to be him. "Who doesn't, Sam, who doesn't?"

There was the sound of wings flapping enthusiastically. "_Mrrrrow_!"

♠♠♠

Amazingly, not long after the blizzard stopped, the temperate shot up, and the sun came out to play. Roads were plowed and salted, parking lots and sidewalks were hastily shoveled, and it was just about time for the Winchester duo (trio, if you want to include the Impala, which you should, and which Dean made Sam dig out), to leave their motel and move on to where the road would take them next.

"You're never going in the sewer again." Dean stated as he watched Sam pack up their belongings. The brunette agreed, and his badly tamed coif nodded eagerly. He looked down at his legs, rubbing the pad of his thumb along his cast, while wearing a frown. "I think there are fang indentions in my cast."

Sam smiled weakly. "Don't look at me."

"Oh, but I am."

Luckily, Franklin was nowhere in sight. In a few short hours, his wings had grown bigger, as had his body, and after Dean fought him off with a crutch, he soon disappeared, possibly with a broken heart. Dean held no regrets, 'cause that thing was effin' creepy to the max, yo. Sam wondered why it left so abruptly, but could only fanwank that it must've realized it was out of place; that it didn't belong there.

"I can do without ever experiencing that again. I swear, Sam, if you ever bring home a demon ever again…"

"I didn't bring him home, he followed me—_us_."

"Oh? And what's going to next, a humane vampire? Jesus, Sam. What did you do to attract it in the first place, feed it? Lift up your skirt a little?"

"Excuse me? What did you do to attract it?"

"Hey, I was an innocent bystander—sitter?" Whatever. "Until it molested me." Dean sniffled pitifully, feebly adding, "I was _violated_." It hadn't been a pretty sight—well, okay, maybe a hilarious one if you were Sam—when Franklin had somehow gotten into the bathroom and tried to jump into the bathtub with Dean. Guess demon cats weren't afraid of water, or hollering twenty-seven year old men. "Never again, I'm telling you, _never again_."

"Never again." Sam promised, but with his fingers crossed, because the new whole demonic animal perspective was kind of intriguing. "But you would've done it, too. Supernatural doesn't always equal evil."

"Dude, you sure as hell weren't preaching that bullshit when you were eight seconds away from filing a restraining order after you caught him _getting excited_ watching you undress." Sam, as he shoved a handful of socks into his duffel bag, glanced behind his shoulder, as if he had heard purring. Simultaneously, Dean looked behind his shoulder, swearing he had heard that familiar sound of feathers fluttering. Silence lingered in the stale air. Dean threaded a hand through his short hair. "Sweet Jesus, we need to get out of here. It's more maddening than—"

Finished packing at a few record, Sam swung his bag behind his shoulder. "Actually, Dean, I don't need a metaphor for any convincing."

"It was a good one."

"I'll take your word for it." With most of their stuff waiting for them in the Impala, Sam opened the door, allowing that horrid sunlight to fill the dimly lit room. He kept one hand griped around the doorknob, and shifted weight from one leg to the other, patiently waiting for his hobbling brother.

Dean frowned up at him as he pushed himself off his bed, already using his crutches without being reminded. "No one likes a smartass, Sam… but a hot, single stud on ageless cool crutches? _Woo_."

"Yeah, yeah." The brunette patted his shoulder as he moved past him. "We've already learned that you attract more than Homo sapiens." Sorry, he couldn't resist! And neither could Dean.

"Yeah, _and_ we also learned that all it takes is a shirtless me to, uh, _convert_ your, eh, _admirers_." He added, after a possible flashback of Franklin running head first into a wall, in a grumble, "fuckin' _crazy_ admirers." Two short steps out the door, he smirked, squinting up at the bright sky. "But they sure ain't stupid."

Sam locked the motel door and turned around, hands up. "All right, Dean, you win; demons love you the most… when you're half-naked."

"I don't blame 'em—and he didn't even see my _best_ half."

"When he comes back, I doubt you'll be this cocky." An image of Dean standing on a motel bed, a loaded pistol in one hand, and a broom in the other, made him chuckle. He brought the back of his hand up to his lips, stifling the laughter when Dean shot him a humorously dark glance, sternly echoing, "_when_?" He nodded. "Well… he's still out there—"

"And I wonder whose fault that is!"

"I wasn't going to _shoot_ him."

"Dude, you let him freakin' _board_ with us."

"And I wasn't about to strand him out in the freezing cold."

"You cooked him _soup_."

"I'm not arguing with you over this. It's over." Sam tossed their gear into the trunk, and then slammed down the lid. He spun around, enunciating, "_it's over_," again before Dean could open his mouth. "Right?"

"You kiddin'? I have enough one-liners to—" There was some rustling not far behind them, and Dean glanced awkwardly behind his shoulder, his grip tightening on the hand rests of either crutch. He shifted back toward his brother, mumbling something about not packing. "Okay, we can go." He hopped on over to the passenger side of the lovely black '67 Impala, and waited impatiently, supporting his uninjured side on the crutch. "I said we could go."

"What? You want me to open your door, princess?" Sam dared to ask, starting to feel like the older brother who gave the younger one a hard time.

"No, I want you to unlock the door so I can get in, smartass."

Sam patted the outside of his pockets to feel for the keys as he walked around to the driver's side. Ah, the driver's seat… it was starting to feel like home to him. He totally ruined Dean's ass imprint with his own. "I will, I will… just don't _trip_ over on your way in." By now, he had a hand shoved into a pocket, tightlipped as he searched for the damned keys.

"Lookin' for something, Sammy?" Dean asked cheekily, one arm braced against the car, supporting him. He held up the keys in his other hand, dangling them tauntingly. Sam's expression perfectly read, "you _bitch_. You _sneaky_ bitch." He cleared his throat, explaining, "Frankie actually gave me them, dropped them by my feet not long after you shaved your legs in the bathroom."

"Funny. Cute little bugger, wasn't he?" Of course, by, "little," he meant, "monstrously huge." Suddenly, Sam's eyes widened, and he gaped. "Holy shit." He declared in a hiss, his eyes locked on something behind Dean's shoulder. "He's… _flying_! Behind you, Dean, _behind you_."

Apparently, "gullibility," was a side effect of pain medication, because Dean whipped around, nearly falling over. The keys slipped out of his grasp when his hand went down to the foam-covered hand rest of his metal crutch. There was nothing behind him, so he looked down, and again, there was _nothing_ behind him. "Sam!" He miserably snapped after hearing Sam's cackling. The taller man jogged over, swooping down to pick up the keys. "That was a low blow—_Bush league_." Sam laughed again, turning his shoulders to leave, but that hadn't stopped Dean from whacking him in the calf with a crutch. At least that stopped the annoying laughter.

A few minutes later, while still exchanging pleasantries, both brothers were situated comfortably in the car. "Wave goodbye." Sam said, nodding out the window as he turned over the engine. The Impala started with a purr so sweet.

"Yeah, 'cause if there's anything we do, it's wave at the crummy motels we were trapped in for the stupid weekend. This ain't Pokémon."

"You watch Pokémon?"

"Oh, shut up and drive."

"No, really. Maybe we're trapped in an alternate universe crossover, and the demon was actually Franklinmon." That wouldn't be the strangest thing that has ever happened to them. Okay, maybe it would, _maybe_. The world may never know.

Dean looked thoughtful for a minute, but then rolled his eyes, resting against the door, arms loosely crossed over his chest. "Freak."

"Fine. Next time, _you_ check out the sewer."

"So you can sit in the car and bitch? Yeah, _great_ role reversals there." The sarcasm was thick, but the mere banter was just that. There wasn't any truth in Sam's words; he'd rather not send Dean down there alone, and vice-versa, especially after the whole shape-shifter incident. Dean's words were backed by a recent dose of medication.

The radio turned on when the car started, but was turned down at a low volume. Despite the volume, Dean heard every word, and relaxed, sinking back into his seat, practically nodding off already. "You think we'll ever see anything like that again?"

"I think we'll see anything and everything…"

"But the kitchen sink." Dean finished with him, their voices overlapping. He tilted his head back, eyes fluttering closed. In several minutes, Sam noticed his brother's humming was in tune with what he could barely hear coming from the radio. He smiled warmly, glancing sideways at his only brother, his _family_. It was a touching moment, really.

After a turn out of the small town, the road stretched out farther than eye can see. There was a forest of bare trees covering the ground on either side of the road, all ice and snow coated. The ground was covered with a thick, pure white sheet of snow, undisturbed of dirt, mud or footprints, and looked rather peaceful and calming.

It was uncertain where they were going, but Sam knew they'd run into something. Or something would run into them—again. Hopefully the next job would be easy, maybe a salt and burn, or an exorcism. Sam wanted something that would keep Dean in the game without costing him another limb.

Honestly now! Who doesn't notice a black dog sprawled out on the ground as they're running down a hill in _daylight_? Well, okay, it wasn't completely daylight, but the sun had yet to set. "Idiot." The brunette said under his breath with a goofy grin. He jumped slightly when Dean suddenly stubbornly stated, "I was _pushed_."

Yeah, whatever.

Dean turned up the music, and away they went.


End file.
